By the Sword
by Partly
Summary: Everything a spy does, makes enemies.


_Everything a spy does, makes enemies. Whether it be a simple lie to a lowly guard in order to con your way past a checkpoint, a drink and a false promise of romance to a lonely secretary in order to steal her pass code or the longer term infiltration into the confidence of an important cabinet member in order to destroy everything they believe in – every mission ends in betrayal and desertion. The better the spy you are, the more enemies you leave behind._

_And I was a very good spy._

"Mikhail Kovalev." The deep Russian voice froze me in mid-step. There were only a handful of people who knew me by that name, and only one who'd have a reason to remember it all these years later.

I took stock of my possible escape routes and nearest cover opportunities. None of them looked good. The middle of a strip mall was a very poor place to run into a sworn enemy, especially when that sworn enemy was a former Soviet GRU agent with a well-earned reputation for ruthlessness. I turned slowly around, keeping my hands in sight and smiling as harmlessly as possible. I took a defensive stance though, one that presented the smallest profile and made it easiest to reach the pistol that sat in the small of my back.

"Maksim Petrov." iRuthless GRU Agent./i He looked old now and heavier by a good twenty pounds. He was still dangerous, though. I could see it in the way he held himself and while the cut of his expensive suit hid most of his muscle and the gun that he wore on his shoulder both were there. "It's been a while. The last time I saw you was…"

"Kiev." He filled in for me.

I nodded. Quite honestly, I thought I'd killed him in Kiev. Even if the shot to the chest hadn't been fatal, the 20-story fall should have finished the job. "You are looking well, Maksim."

He waved his hand dismissively. "I am old, now." His English had only a slight accent, much different than the guttural rasping voice that I could still hear threatening to kill me in painfully creative ways. He studied me with narrowed eyes for a moment, then swept the appraising gaze across the crowd of shopping tourists. "I have heard that you were…" he paused searching for the right word, "idisowned,/i. This American version of exile is much more pleasant than the Soviet one."

I shrugged. "It's warmer."

He didn't make a move toward a gun and he seemed more interested in the crowd around me than in me. When he turned his head I could see he wore a small earpiece, high tech and definitely not Soviet. He shifted slightly away from me, checking his watch and focusing on a small jewelry boutique across the courtyard. A younger man, also in a well-tailored suit and also sporting a shoulder holster stood outside the door. I did a quick scan of the area and spotted two more men standing by a long black limo. Private security. Very high-end private security. Not a Soviet operation.

I did another scan of the crowd this time looking for potential threats. There were none, just a Thursday afternoon crowd of tourists and teenagers. When I turned back to Maksim, he was staring at me, an odd smile playing on his lips.

"You are not out," he said. "I knew you could not leave."

I shrugged. "But you did."

"Yes." He paused and put his hand to his ear, listening to the earpiece. Then he spoke into his cuff, quickly, softly, in Russian. An older woman and a young girl walked out of the boutique, the young man waiting outside followed them at a discreet distance. Maksim watched for a moment, then turned back to me. "This is not how I imagined meeting you again."

"No?"

"In Kiev, the only thing that kept me alive was planning all the different ways that I could kill you." Now his smile was predatory and as disturbing as I remembered it being. "I was going to take great pleasure in destroying you."

For a moment, the old Maksim stood before me and my hand twitched toward my pistol. Then he sighed and looked away. I waited a moment, and then asked. "What changed?"

"Stefanya." The name was said wistfully, the way only a man truly in love could say a name. "She was my nurse. After a couple of months I realized that I was waking up every morning and struggling to heal not so I could kill you, but so that I could see her smile. She talked of a life I never dreamed of and helped me see that there is more to the world than revenge. We have three children now."

I relaxed for the first time since I heard his voice. "I'm happy for you," I said. And I was. The old Maksim Petrov had been a dangerous man, a top predator in a world of predators. This new Maksim may still have been dangerous, but he wasn't a threat anymore. At least not to the world in general. Or to me, specifically. "This new life suits you."

He tilted his head, again listening to voices on the intercom. "I have to go." He fixed me with another hard look. "Be well, Mikhail. I would tell you to be safe, but I don't believe a safe life is for you."

I didn't argue the point. He turned and made his way toward the waiting limo. I watched the car drive away, one less enemy in my world.

_"Live by the sword, die by the sword."_

_As a spy, retirement planning is more of a philosophical exercise than a necessity. Occasionally, though, you get to see that not all choices lead to bad endings. Dying by the sword might still be the most common ending, but it wasn't the only one. An old enemy taught me that_.


End file.
